


Work Yourself To Death And Back.

by Alexandria_Antoinette



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BAMF Tim Drake, Blind Character, Blind Tim Drake, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bruce Wayne Being an Asshole, Caffeine Addiction, Damian Wayne is Robin, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Deaf Character, Deaf Tim Drake, Exhaustion, Gen, Gore, Heavy Angst, Hurt Tim Drake, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's Not Paranoia If They're Really Out To Get You, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd has regrets, Jason is a Dork, Kidnapping, M/M, Malnutrition, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mute Tim Drake, Mutual Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychic Tim Drake, Resurrected Jason Todd, Romance, Set of One-shots, Tim Drake Whump, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Vomiting, mute character, psychic character, psychotic Tim Drake, psychotic character, really horrible things happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-06-29 16:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19833709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexandria_Antoinette/pseuds/Alexandria_Antoinette
Summary: Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne is many things; a quitter is not one of these things. No matter what, he works his ass off for everyone but himself, and soon enough he's going to work himself to death, then back just because he can.A set of one-shots for everything circling Tim; angst, tragedy, torture, and a lot of really dark humor.





	1. To See Is To Believe.

Not long after the tales of 'The Batman' began circulating around the nasty, grimy underbelly of Gotham did a new name pop up. ' ** _Viper_** ' they call them. No one's managed to see them up close, but if they do it's not like there's ever much of them left to tell the rest of the story. People who managed to catch a glimpse of the small figure slinking away compared them to a snake slithering into a dark, musty corner to wait calmly, up until the next monster crossed their paths.

The Batman, of course, has spent the past four years looking for Viper. A shadow looking for a shadow, one beat of a heart for another. No such luck. It's said that those who can catch sight of them without the mask of shadows see white eyes and a steel mouth full of fangs. Of course, these are all just rumors; stories to tell your kids so they don't venture out into the night, unaware and unafraid.

 _Rumors_ , Dick assured himself.

The assurance never works to quell his fear.

The first time Batman actually crosses paths with Viper, it's purely by accident. Of course, if you were to ask him he would deny it until it puts him in an early grave, but it doesn't negate the fact. The only reason he happened upon the younger was because they just so happened to be following the same lead on a drug cartel. It was in some warehouse along the docks, abandoned and left to be swallowed up by the murky waters of Gotham's shores.

Watching the slight body bring down twelve men three times his size was a sight to see; anyone could admit that. The body moved like silk ribbons; get too tangled up and you'll be helpless as you're hung by the neck.

Batman watched, silent as Viper brought down the last thug easily; just a slip of the wrist and the man was down, blood gushing from a shattered nose and fractured cheek bone. It was terrifying. Batman shuddered a breath in despite himself and the body stilled. Ice shot down Batman's arms as the head turned towards him, black curtains parting ways to white-hot eyes and metal encasing his mouth.

It hooked beneath his jaw and covered his mouth, the designs obviously intricate and hand-done over hours of grinding and sweating through sparks. They were pale, and when Batman managed a closer look they appeared male.

The Viper brought a hand up to the mask, and it took the joints of the mask to un-clench for Batman to realize that it wasn't even a _mask_.

It was a muzzle.

Made to keep him quiet.

"And you must be the Batman, yes?" 

The voice was high pitched, modulated; squeaky and creaked like rusted doors and a child's nightmare.

Batman dropped in a crouch before the man, low. The eyes didn't follow his movement and it took one second too many for him to realize why.

"I've heard rumors from certain little twittering birds that you've been looking for me. How sweet; and they say chivalry is dead." 

The man waved a hand towards the incapacitated thugs before him without turning his head. His face, the parts that Batman could see, were gaunt and snake like; thin and unnerving. Pale, something that you would expect to see after summoning a demon from hell. The man before him was so much smaller and yet, Batman couldn't help the impulsive shot of fear through his heart as the man set his sightless eyes on him.

"I'm not one to linger for long; as you know. I will say this though." Here, the man leaned into where Batman was crouching, placing a hand at the corner of his mouth with a very heavy stage whisper, "You won't have to look very hard to find me, anymore. I promise."

With an exaggerated wink, the man stalked off. 

Batman hoped the man was lying.

Three days later, someone was knocking on Bruce's front door. Alfred, upon opening it, had greeted whoever stood there lightly; voice higher, softer. A child? A friend? Bruce stepped out from behind the kitchen to glance towards the front door. Alfred was lowering his upper body slightly to speak to whoever stood before him. 

"Why Master Timothy, I've not seen you since you were barely able to stand on your own two feet. Look at you!" 

Alfred stepped aside to allow the young man in their home, and Bruce felt like someone had curdled the blood in his veins. 

A pair of pale eyes starred ahead, a curtain of silky black hair, a gaunt face; a nightmare wrapped up in human skin too small, stretched too thin. The white cane he held in his hand looked too innocent, too unassuming. Bruce felt like he was staring right into the face of the devil himself.

"Master Bruce, you remember our partners the Drakes. Timothy here has inherited the entire business, due to the unfortunate passing of his parents." Alfred's hand was on Timothy's shoulder.

Bruce smiled towards Timothy smoothly, offering up words like "Of course I remember." "It's wonderful to see you." and "I'm so sorry for your loss." 

"Don't worry Mister Wayne." Tim's voice was light and airy, like spun sugar covering decomposing flesh. "I did mention you wouldn't have to look too hard."

Timothy's smile was like looking into the mouth of a beast, and no matter where he was, may it be an abandoned warehouse or his own home, those teeth will still send chills down his spine.


	2. The End To It All.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all, who was going to stop him? The old fool before him? As if.

"Timothy." Ra's voice was low in his ear, almost a growl. Tim, no longer donning his usual cowl, tilted his head at the use of his name.

"Yes?"

"What exactly are you doing?"

Barely contained rage. Ah, so he finally gets a reaction. Good; the emotional one's are always the better versions of their little games.

"Well, I would have hoped that to someone like you, that answer would have been fairly obvious. My mistake; I guess your old age is finally catching up to you then, huh?"

Another snarl sounded in his ear, and Tim couldn't stop the smile from splitting his cheeks open. The button under his hand gave way to the pressure Tim was steadily placing on it, and he could hear- _could_ _feel_ \- the explosion of another pit under his feet. He could feel the anger radiating off of his other player.

"I truly do enjoy the time we've shared," Tim started, "But I've got some pressing matters to attend to. As do you, by the sounds of it. So, I'll be seeing my self out." The glass behind him gave way to his weight, and suddenly he was falling.

It took two weeks for the man to find him again; in a small coffee shop two blocks from Wayne Enterprises. Tim was happy to admit that the man, no matter how impeccably he always dressed, couldn't rock a cast as well as Tim can.

"Wonderful to see you again, Ra's."

Tim's words were honeyed with poison and venom. The syllables glued themselves to the roof of his mouth with every word. Ra's eyes were paler than before, Tim notices, as they bore deeply into his own deathly blue behind his sunglasses.

"You are playing a dangerous game here, detective."

Tim scoffs into his coffee cup, sunglasses fogging up slightly at the steam.

"Oh please, you act as if you're some higher power."

Ra's eyebrow raises, "Am I not?"

The corners of Tim's mouth lift up at the question. Ra's would compare the smirk to that of something that is barely passing as human; closer to a creature with fangs too large for its head than any real person.

"No, Ra's. I do not believe you to be of any 'higher power' than myself, or that barista, or your foolish, power driven lackey's that follow your every whim."

Ra's could barely hold back the snarl trying to force it's way onto his teeth.

Tim removes the sunglasses and places them on the table, eye contact not breaking as he continues.

"You are nothing but a simple old fool playing the part of a god. You cannot avoid death entirely. You can try and stall for time, sure; anyone can do that. And it might even work, for a while. But nothing-and I mean _nothing_ \- is eternal. One day, you and your league will meet a painful, fiery death. Maybe it'll be tomorrow, or the day after. Or in hundreds of years, after I'm dead and gone."

Here, Tim leaned in; weight on his elbows and ass lifting from his seat as he got closer to the man.

"You will meet your end one day, and I'll be waiting in hell for you when it happens."

Tim removed his shades from the table and returned them to the bridge of his nose, coffee still in hand as he left the shop in a flourish of pride and wit. 

"One day indeed, detective." Ra's mutters as he watches the tracking beacon blink red on his screen. 


	3. Patience Is A Virtue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim wasn't very well known for playing nice, you know.

Tim's teeth dug even further into his tongue as the voices grew louder, grating on his ear drums and crackling in his chest cavity.

"He need's to be sedated B; who knows what the hell else happened? Have you done a physical check? Mental analysis? Have you even gotten the entire story outta him?"

Tim's fingers stopped flying over the keys at the same time the two elder bats in the cave halted their argument. The sound of a heavy motor rang through the cave, pushing through Tim's concentration with enough force to jar him out of the pre-destined haze of filing his report. His head hurt like a bitch and all he wanted to do was finish this up and go sleep for a few blessed hours before he had to start getting ready for a Wayne Enterprises meeting.

"Jason."

Bruce greeted behind him, voice stilted and awkward; yeah, emoting is still very difficult for the man.

"I heard the replacement got into some shit recently."

Tim spun around in the chair, tiny frame daunted and consumed by the metal of the seat. His hair was hanging out of it's low bun and he blew a handful of it out from his eye softly.

"Ah, speak of the devil! Listen kid, I need a favor to ask of you."

And what makes you think I'm going to do it?"

The question seemed to catch everyone else off guard; reeling back ever so slightly, like they had been slapped.

"Uh, because you'd rather _not_ die a useless lump?"

Jason's empty and poorly concealed threat of physical violence hung in the air for only a moment before Tim shot it down. 

"Judge me all you want, we're all going to die soon enough. I just intend to deserve it, and ensure it sticks. Unlike _some_ people."

Which was a low blow, apparently, because one moment the three stood before him, tense and unknowing of what to do with themselves; suddenly the barrel of a gun is pressed against Tim's temple, Dick is trying to pull Jason away with an arm crossed across the younger's chest, and Bruce has moved a heavy hand to his belt, ready to fire a smoke bomb if need be.

"Oh honey," Tim laced his voice with as much sugar as possible, just like mummy dearest ( _May she continue to **rot** in her casket_) "You're so fucked up and broken inside, and yet no body has ever cared enough to notice. How **horrible** that must feel."

Tim bares his teeth in the facsimile of his mothers smile; always just a little too much teeth, too much tension in her eyes for it to have been genuine. 

"You little fucking shit head-" Jason pushed the gun even harder against Tim's temple, lifting his thumb to switch the safety off.

"Please, you make-shift Frankenstein," Tim snorted, "Your losing my interest, so come up with a little more of a creative nickname than that, yeah?"

Tim turned his smile into a heavy set frown and mocked, "I mean, you _can_ still do that, right? He didn't knock all of your senses out of you, did he?"

Jason kicked Dick off of his back as he made another move to interfere, then re-adjusted the position of the gun from his temple to right under his chin, forcing Tim's head backwards and looking up into Lazarus-mad green eyes.

"I'll fucking kill you for that."

Tim sneered.

"You can't kill me; even if you could, you can't bring yourself to do it. you'd hesitate. _Again_."

Jason growled, pressed the barrel further into his skin before he screamed, spinning and shooting the screen for a computer five times in succession. 

Tim watched as he huffed off in a pout before adding- "Oh _honey_ , you think you're big and scary, huh? Well I've seen scary, and you don't quite have his **smile**." 

Tim grinned.


End file.
